


Of no consequence

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:35:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wives, like husbands, must attend to their duties below the Dreadfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of no consequence

Roose doesn’t always take her below when there is work to be done. Most of the time, he silently descends, bearing a torch, face grim, to see to matters, and when he emerges with face of stone, it is Bethany who comes to him, eyes blazing at the implication of his hands, now reddened from the cold water with which they have been scrubbed, and his tight breath. She surrenders to him then, yielding under his iron grip, and it is during these moments, when he bites down on tender flesh, and when she scores his skin with her nails, that she thinks on making a child, birthing their heir. 

Tonight, she is by his side, babe in her belly, a silent shadow cloaked in dark red wool, nervous fingers twisting the rough fabric as they stand above the prisoner, a serving girl, her face battered half-beyond recognition, eyes shut tight against the cruel light that flickers from Bethany’s lantern. She does not recall the woman’s transgressions, does not care what sin that Roose has found in her; she is only concerned with her part in this game and her flawless execution. 

When she sets her light in the sconce above the table, the woman tries to turn away, but the leather straps that restrain her hold firm, and she is forced to open her eyes, to face her accuser. 

“You,” she says, her voice a rusty hinge, a dying gust of wind. “Whore. You’re nothing but his whore.”

Bethany does not flinch, nor does she shy away. She smiles at the words, and it is soft and gentle, indulgent even. She has no beauty, nothing save a sullen expression, mouth set and eyes hooded in shadows, yet there is a gleam in them that was not there before tonight and her lips curl curiously. When she holds out her hand, Roose places the knife in her palm, and his fingers trail across it, feeling as though they are ice. Their eyes meet briefly, as Bethany turns her head, her lips still twisted in what might pass for a smile. 

“What is her crime, my lord?” Bethany says then, her voice whisper soft. It almost frightens her at times how much of Roose that she has absorbed, to be so calm, so detached in this moment. It is like a dream to her; none of it is really real, none of it truly matters. 

“She was found before your mirror, her jewels at her throat, on her wrists and fingers. I thought it best that you be the one to see it through.” 

Bethany nods, tying a strip of fabric around the woman’s mouth, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the filth that rubs off on her fingers. “I thank you for that,” she murmurs, blade now poised above the woman’s hand, taking a finger and placing the edge against it. As she drives it upwards, her hands are steady and her breath even. Not even the guttural, muffled screams or the tears of agony streaming down her captive’s face deter her, and she even forgets the presence of her husband. It is only Bethany’s hands, her blade, and the blood that pools on the steel and smears on her fingers, that concern her. She beholds then the pink flesh, the withered skin on the wooden table, the scarlet streams that stain it, running down towards the drain in the center of the cell. 

Turning to Roose, she says nothing, only looking at him with eyes made cold, jaw jutting with a subtle pride, and when he gestures to the basin in a niche, brimming with icy water, she lays aside the knife and plunges her hands into it with a sense of finality. 

The screams have died away, the woman having fainted from the pain, and when Bolton’s jailor enters, his timing precise, she gestures to the table as if it were nothing more than a mere annoyance. 

“Bind her hand lest she bleed to death.” 

She watches, not permitting herself to turn away, as the filthy gauze is wrapped around the raw flesh, and although she bites her lip, hard, as she imagines the sensation, her own fingers prickling, Bethany forces herself to swallow it, to disavow any qualms. She will lay it aside, and already has, one hand unconsciously cupping the swell of her belly, resting on her child. 

Bethany wonders then if he will have the stomach for this. It is a learned art, after all, and definitely not for the weak or the soft-hearted. But this too, she puts aside. 

It isn’t until they reach his rooms that she kisses her husband roughly, shoving him onto the bed, and straddling him as if he were her mare. She hardly pays mind to his hands in her hair, pulling her tangled tresses so tightly that they almost rip from her scalp, or his nails digging into her thighs, drawing blood, or the child, half-formed, that she carries with her. The only thing in her mind is the blade, the dazzling shine of it, and the dark power that had been gifted to her. Everything else is, for now, of no consequence.


End file.
